Various BlackHawk Fics
by RutilaeComae
Summary: I'm just gonna keep my BlackHawk one-shots and short stories here.
1. I Swear I Didn't Mean To

"Nat..." The archer stood, leaning against the doorframe of the indoor shooting range, pleading for the millionth time that day with a dangerously upset assassin.

"Clint." Her voice was cold, trying a little too hard to sound indifferent. She steadied her pistol and fired three times. If Natasha could just keep her back to him she could hold her composure. Unfortunately for her, Clint had no intentions of letting that happen. He strode across the concrete floor and ducked under her arm to stand in front of her, narrowly avoiding blunt-force trauma to the back of the head when she spun the gun around her finger. His face was inches from hers and he just stood, waiting, staring straight through every part of her carefully measured expression. Clint had long since given up on trying to hide anything from Natasha but she clung to that tactic for dear life. She'd been trained to do it from the time she was a little girl and not even that mission in Budapest could change her forever. She may have broken then, but she'd sealed up the cracks years ago. Or at least she had tried to. Damn Clint and his knack for knowing exactly what she was thinking…

For a long while, the two of them just stood there, eyes locked on each other, calculating every movement and every possibility. And then Clint did what he did best: The unexpected. Before the Black Widow had time to react, he caught her lips in a soft kiss, one hand reaching up to tuck a wisp of fiery hair behind her ear and lingering just a little too long. Nat leaned into the kiss before thinking better of it and then forced herself away. Clint sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor as the victim of his ambush-affections stormed across the room and slammed her gun onto the table.

"Nat, I-"

"You can't keep doing this!" she yelled, her hands falling hard to the metal below and landing with a clang. For a brief moment, Clint swore he saw her shoulders shudder, but her composure snapped back before he had the chance to decide if it had really happened.

"I didn't mean to… This time, I swear to you, I didn't mean to." Clint took slow, silent steps toward the woman that could very well snap his neck if he pushed the boundaries again. That possibility alone would halt any other person in their tracks... Except Clint was really bad at boundaries. He stopped behind her, his arms sliding around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to," he whispered, his lips ghosting across her neck and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Natasha's breath caught as his breath blew lazily across her skin. She wouldn't break this time. Not again. She would not- Dammit.

The ever-so-stoic Agent Romanova shattered. "A year… A year, Clint," she managed, her voice quivering, her breath unsteady, her shoulders shaking violently into his chest as he tightened his grip around her. He wasn't sure what good it would do, but he feared that if he let go, she might literally fall to pieces. He'd only seen her like this once before and had been unfathomably useless.

It had been their first mission as a team and her first mission ever. A mission to Budapest. Natasha, a young and inexperienced agent at the time, stood in the middle of a burning city, the sounds of gunfire overwhelming her, and dozens of dead bodies around her, with Clint by her side. No amount of training could prepare you for that experience and so there, in the middle of the road, she had fallen to her knees and cried. Her partner, while experienced in the art of killing, was clueless as to how to deal with a woman sobbing into her bloodstained hands in the middle of a dirt road, and he just stood awkwardly next to her.

This time would not be like that. Although last time it wasn't his fault. Now, all the blame fell squarely on his shoulders. He'd always found a way to let her know before. He'd always let her know he was still okay, but 13 months ago when he dropped off of the face of the planet, he'd had no way of saying it was alright. He was just gone and Natasha thought she'd lost him forever. The first few months, she'd believed that he was just gone on some mission. By the fifth month, she worried constantly behind her steel exterior. By the eighth, she called off duty and mourned alone for weeks on end, consuming an impressive amount of alcohol one night when she thought she'd seen him on the street and it turned out to be a complete stranger with similar hair.

And then, one day, long after she'd come back to S.H.I.E.L.D. to resume her work, he just appeared in the doorway. Aside from the puckering pink flesh along his left cheek that would soon blend in with all the other scars he had gained, he was completely unharmed and looking decidedly not like someone returning from a dangerous mission. His eyes had lit up at the sight of Natasha standing but she simply walked out of the room, ignoring him completely. She could not be in the same room as him. Not after a year of devastatingly lonely mourning. The apartment had been eerily silent without him there. She thought she'd lost the love of her life and he could not just show up like everything was okay. She refused to talk to him, or even acknowledge his existence, for three weeks, but she was cornered now and she might as well just let it happen.

Clint burrowed his face into her shoulder, apologizing again and again, barely audible over the sound of both of them holding back tears. As his grip loosened, Natasha turned herself around to face him. "I'm so sorry." His voice nearly cracked, his impossibly blue eyes searching for any sign of forgiveness. And then Natasha grabbed him by his shirtfront and pulled him down into a desperate kiss, wanting to be as close to him as humanly possible and then closer.


	2. I Just Wanted To Scare You

_AN: Holy crap, guys. I didn't think people would like that fic! Thanks so much for the reviews. I'll try to update this and keep it decent, but since I had no intentions of writing it as a series I don't really know where I'm going with it. Hope I don't disappoint._

"NO!" Clint bolted upright, drenched in cold sweat, his eyes flying open to escape the nightmares that tormented him every time he dozed off. His hands searched the sheets beside him, reaching desperately for a body that wasn't there. How could she not be there? Had it all been a dream? That thought alone overwhelmed the already fragile archer. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the short locks and sliding his knees up to his chest. Clint's eyes shut tightly in an attempt to stave off the inevitable tears. "Nat… Nat…" He just repeated her name over and over. Maybe if he said it enough times, she'd be there. Maybe he could have her back. His eyes finally adjusting to the dark, he noticed that this was his room at the mansion, not his holding cell. He really was home. And just then, the door creaked open and Natasha tip toed into the room, clad only in the pale blue shirt she'd practically ripped from his torso the evening before, and holding a cup of tea. Clint's face broke into the biggest grin she had ever seen as he swiped a hand across each cheek, trying to make it look like he was just rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Standing to meet Natasha in the middle of the room, Clint wrapped her in his arms and refused to let go, managing to sweep her up off of her feet and carry her back to the bed without spilling a drop of her drink.

"Clint?" _Should I ask? Probably best not to… It's his choice to tell me about what happened…_

"Hmm?" he mumbled, barely pulling his lips away from her neck.

"Never mind…" Answers could wait 'til morning. She settled instead for running her fingers along his bare chest, setting her mug on the bedside table and snuggling up next to him. This was a much better way to stay warm.

The next morning, Nat awoke to the sounds of Tony and Steve arguing over how to deal with the latest threat on the city and Bruce trying his best to make peace between them. She repositioned herself, sitting up and planting a kiss right in the middle of Clint's forehead.

The archer's eyes shot open, teeming with fear until everything came into focus and he recognized the face above him. "Morning, darling," he mumbled, trying to disguise his reaction as sleep deprivation or something. He wasn't really sure.

"What was that?" Natasha stood, her eyes wavering between concern and demand.

"I don't know what you're talking about…" He rolled over, face-down in the mess of pillows and blankets.

"Really, Clint? I'm not blind."

"This is not an interrogation, Nat. This is sleep-time." Pulling the covers back over his head, Clint started to doze off again, hoping she'd join him for his post-sleep nap. Instead, Nat yanked the covers off of him. Yelping at the unwelcomed cold, Clint scrambled for something to cover himself up with. Nat cocked an eyebrow at him. She'd missed him like hell, but now she needed answers. Clint avoided her eyes, looking rather uncomfortable with the fact that he was being questioned in his own room, on his own bed, with nothing but a pillow keeping him decent. "Fine…"

"Good. So, what was that reaction about?"

Clint crossed his legs, hugging his pillow and mumbling into it. "wtr trtr…"

"What?"

"I said it was wtr trtr…" Clint stumbled over to the far corner of the room, retrieving his boxers and slipping them on before searching fruitlessly his jeans.

"Clinton Francis Bart-"

"WATER TORTURE, OKAY?" This time he held her eyes, seeing them flash from horror to anger to pain and then back to anger.

"Who." It was not a question. It was not a request. It was a demand.

"I won't tell you, Nat. You know that already. Because if I do, you're going to do something stupid and I'm going to have to live without you again and I'm not going to go through that another time."

"Clint, I-"

"No. Listen to me for once, Nat. Just once. Listen to me. I am never, never going to live without you again." He was standing in front of her, hands on her shoulders, eyes locked with hers. "Never…" _What is he doing? _"Ever…" _No, no, no. He can't be. Stand up, Clint. Stand up. _"Again…" And from God-knows-where, Clint produced a small black box, opening it to reveal a perfect ring set with a perfect ruby. "I know it's not the most romantic way to do it, seeing as I'm not even half-dressed… But I couldn't wait." Nat could barely breathe. Forming a coherent sentence was absolutely out of the question and Clint was enjoying that way too much. "Natalia Romanova… I love you. Will you please… Shut up and take this ring because I bought it a while ago and I think it would look nice on you."

"Clint… Clint are you…?"

"Oh, God no!" he laughed. "No, no, no. I mean, not that I haven't, erm, thought about that or, um… Nevermind." His face flushed a red almost as bright as the stone in the ring. "No, I'm not. I just wanted to scare you."

"I think you've done enough of that."


	3. Oh, Mama, I'm In Fear For My Life

_AN: Sorry I took so long to get this written. Also very sorry that it's so short. Gah, I'm sorry this is probably terrible. But thanks so much for all the adds/favorites!_

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_Flashback 13 months_

Clint and Natasha sat in a smoky karaoke bar in the middle of New Mexico, keeping a close eye on some big-wig crime boss. It wasn't exactly their most exotic or exciting mission, but it was dangerous nonetheless. In his ear, Clint's radio crackled to life, Agent Coulson's voice barely overcoming the hoots and hollers of the drunkards around them.

"Intel was corrupt. They have men on their way. Get out. Now."

The archer had less than a second to get a plan together before two rather large men entered the bar, popping the collars of their trench coats and skimming the crowds.

_Damn._

He needed a way to tell Nat what was up and escape without making a scene.

Or maybe a scene is exactly what they needed…

Without any warning, Natasha was yanked up onto the karaoke stage by a stumbling, bumbling Clint, who had grabbed a microphone and was pressing buttons on the karaoke machine.

"Oh, Mama, I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law!" Clint slurred his speech and threw an arm around Natasha, his face inching closer and closer into her personal space.

"Lawman has put an end to my running and I'm so far from my home!" Nat imitated him, catching the hint behind the song and hoping to God that he had a plan to get them out. Halfway through the song, Clint jumped into the crowd, slamming in to a group of forty-something-year-old men. The bouncer was on him in seconds, grabbing Clint under his arms and hauling him up to throw him out. Natasha hopped from the stage, making sure that she didn't land with too much grace, and "tried" to land a hit on the security guard.

"And _stay _out!" The couple of assassins landed in the alley, facedown, as the bouncer slammed the door shut. Grinning at each other, they got to their feet, dusted themselves off, and laughed. They hadn't made an escape like that in a long time. Natasha turned to jog down the alley and hop the fence at the end when she heard a muffled scream from behind her. A dark figure had a gloved hand clamped over Clint's mouth. Why wasn't he fighting back? Why was he just being dragged along? Something sliver glinted by the archer's neck: a dart.

_Bastards._ Nat charged at them, Clint sinking his teeth into the hand over his mouth and freeing himself only to slump to the ground, completely immobile from the neck down. Nat was met with a hand around her throat, a brick wall to the back of her skull, and a tiny needle in her neck.

Darkness danced around the edges of her vision, the world slipping into a soundless haze. The only thing she could remember hearing was someone shouting her name and the ground accelerating at a rather impressive speed towards her face.

She awoke in an eerily clean, white room in a paper gown with various machines making annoying beeping sounds, an array of needles and tubes stuck in her. Coulson entered, the glass doors sliding shut behind him.

"Barton," she demanded. "Where is he."

Phil held the case-file by his side, an almost apologetic look lurking in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Agent Romanova. We don't know."


	4. You're Thinking About It All Wrong

_AN: Woo! New chapter! Thank you all for the subscriptions/favorites/reviews! I'm trying to get you chapters in a timely manner, but I feel like my writing quality is going down… Oh, well! Enjoy!_

Clint awoke in a place rather different than Natasha. It was almost completely black, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness. The concrete floor under his body was cold and damp, his head aching. The archer tried to move, tried to sit up, but his wrists and ankles were immobile, bound to the ground with iron shackles. Groaning, he turned his head, craning it to look around the room. Things were finally coming into focus, those things being the grey, brick walls with chains and cuffs on them.

Nothing else.

No one else.

No Natasha.

If he didn't know she could handle herself, he would've started to worry. It wasn't like they hadn't been hostages before. It wasn't like they'd never been locked in boring, blank, musty holding cells before. But something felt different this time. He couldn't feel her in the building. He didn't know she was safe.

_Nat's well-trained. She knows how to handle herself. _Clint repeated it over and over in his head to keep himself sane, wondering when his kidnappers would show their faces. He thought about her smile, even though it was a rare sight. He thought about the way she swore in Russian when she was mad. It was adorable. And the way she always had her throwing knives with her. They loved to play target practice when they were bored on a mission. The hotels were never happy about the gouged up walls but it was less destructive than some of the other things they did in their rooms. The thought of that made him smile. He missed her already, but he knew he would be back with her soon. These things never lasted more than a month or two.

He started running through all the people who might have a reason to capture them. It had been a while since they'd pissed off anyone this badly so the list was fairly limited.

Those Venezuelan gang leaders hadn't been around much lately, so it probably wasn't them.

Russia wouldn't break the truce this quickly.

Korea probably- _Creak._

The metal door opened, light flooding the room and nearly blinding the archer. The figure that had entered remained a silhouette, unmoving and unspeaking. It just stood there.

_Male. Tall. Well built._ Clint started rattling off descriptions in hopes to figure out who it was, but he was blanking. No enemy matched this shadow.

"You will tell us everything you know, Barton." The voice sounded so familiar, but he couldn't put a face to it. "You will tell us everything you know about Loki Laufeyson, everything you learned while under his spell, or it will be forced out of you."

_Doom? No, it didn't sound like Doctor Doom. Certainly wasn't the Enchantress. Impossible for it to be anyone like Kang or Ultron. Who was it… And why did they want to know about Loki?_

It had been a long time since he'd worked for Loki. Over a year. And he hadn't even been aware of what he did. Why the heck would they be asking if they knew he had no new intel on Loki?

Finally remembering the other person in the room, Barton replied. "I don't remember anything."

"Then…" God, why did that voice sound so damn familiar? Clint just couldn't place it. "We may have to use some, ahem, _unconventional_ methods." The shadowy figure gestured towards the chains and shackles on the walls.

"Mm. Kinky." Clint raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"This is not a joke, Barton."

"Who says I was joking, big guy?" He knew he was pushing it a little, but he had nothing better to do than mock his captor, so why not?

"You will tell us everything we need to know."

"And _you_ will tell me who the hell you are and why you want this information." This guy was really starting to grate on his nerves, not to mention he was in a bad mood without Natasha.

"You know who I am." The voice was solemn, almost a little regretful. "And when you figure that out, you will know why I need this information."

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS." Barton really wasn't in the mood for any of this crap. The face for this voice was in that part of his brain that he just couldn't quite reach and it was really pissing him off. The man just laughed and slammed the door shut, heading back into the light and leaving Clint alone in his holding cell.

A week passed before the man came back, only to say the same things and ask the same questions. Clint was growing bored with this, but they'd taken every precaution with his holding cell. There was absolutely no way for him to break out. He just sat there and tried to pin the voice to a villain he knew. Any villain, but he was drawing a blank.

He was thinking about it again when his captor threw the door open. "Who the hell are you? And don't feed me that crap about already knowing! I've tried matching your voice and build to every bad guy I've ever faced and you're not any of them. Who. Are. You."

"Barton. You're thinking about it the wrong way." The shadowed man put his hands behind his back, readying himself to turn away. "Whoever said I was a 'bad guy'?" And then he turned on his heel slowly, the light hitting his face just right, at just the angle to finally reveal his features.

Clint's eyes widened and he was suddenly unable to find any oxygen in the room, struggling against his shackles. "COME BACK HERE," he screamed, trying harder and harder to free himself. He felt a drop of water splash onto his forehead, another following shortly thereafter. "COME BACK HERE AND FACE ME, _FURY_."


End file.
